Too Late
by Conveyus Prime
Summary: [G1] My idea of what happened when the Autobots found the shuttle that the Decepticons had used to get to Autobot City in TFTM...


There is smoke in the distance, black smoke of a smoldering fire. The trees are bent, broken, twisted into something they were not only minutes before. There's a flash of orange, not of fire but of metal, that can be seen through the dense forest. They are lucky--the forest is not dry, so the fire does not spread far before it is doused by a red fire-truck not driven by man.

The squeal of tires approach from the direction of a ravaged city, as a silver Datsun with a navy blue hood races towards the fire-site. Two Lamborghini's, one red and one gold, follow close behind but are losing ground. Others follow--those who are well enough to travel, at least. Most are recovering within the city, but two have already been confirmed KIA. Two that they knew very well, the mad scientist and the hyperactive magnetic-manipulator. Others may soon follow.

One who is not damaged that badly is tending to their Commander, at least until those who were within the shuttle are recovered. They need a true medic there, and they need one there NOW. For, although they know not his current condition, they somehow know that there will not be enough time for more medics to make their way from their original base to here.

The firetruck transforms, looking at the convoy of vehicles as they approach and also transform, but they do not stop. The silver one has a terrified expression on his face as he sprints the rest of the way, door-wings flared as he ignores the hole in his side. The two Lamborghinis follow a few dozen yards behind, running in perfect unison with identical stony expressions on their faces. A few of the smaller ones who could be spared lag behind, their shorter legs unable to keep up with their larger comrades, but soon even the slower ones pass the red firetruck-like robot, who stands almost like a sentry as they move on.

There's a heart-wrenching cry as the silver one reaches the entrance into the shuttle that should not be there, and the firefighter lowers his head. He already knows that there will be no miracles done today, for the miracle-worker is gone. Although he already knows what he will see, he takes slow, heavy steps towards the shuttle as his optics takes in the scene.

The silver one cradles one of his own form, but once of black and white paint--now gray--as black smoke rises from the still one's mouth. A horrendous hole torn through the body's chest also smokes, but of a more reddish-color of still-smoldering Energon. A red-and-blue one, also of similar make, stands by nearby, seemingly rooted in place in shock. The smaller ones who had come gather around the toughest of their number, also grayed and still and also with a similar hole through chest, close to the neck. Only one weapon could have done such a thing, but it seems as though his end, at least, came quickly.

The two Lamborghinis kneel at each side of another fallen one, his proud black chevron now dented and broken, his chestplate, torso, and knees shot out by multiple types of laser-blasts. His once white-and-red paint-job is now grayed, and there's a thick stream of mech-fluid from the side of his mouth that is only now beginning to slow to trickle. The chevron, and the dark crosses on his shoulders, reveal who it is. A black pickup-truck and a green military Jeep stand nearby one of similar body-design to the one the Lamborghinis now tend to, but this one has no head or much of his torso. It has been blasted to nothing, leaving disjointed arms barely connected to the sides of what little torso remains. This one was once a rusty red, and never again will they hear the drawl that marred his words.

There is no need of a medic to tell them that they are too late.

The red firefighter receives a transmission. Another of their number has died--one of the smaller ones, one who had assisted in building the very city that has been ravaged this day. Although his pessimism was circuit-grinding, there was no doubt to his engineering skills. The firefighter does not have the heart to relay this to those already here, since they will hear of it once they return.

"Wake up," a young, broken voice pierces the silence, the silver one pleading with the grey one he holds in his arms. "Please, wake up! Don't die on me, please! Don't leave me!"

The red-and-blue Datsun kneels down next to the silver one and wordlessly tries to separate the two, but the silver one refuses to let go. The firefighter doesn't doubt that even if there is physical separation, the silver one will never let this go. Will never move on. Whatever progress the young one has made over the vorns… it has been lost in this one moment. That much is certain.

The Lamborghinis say not a word, but the gold one's head is bowed as fluid streams from his optics. The red one remains stony, his gaze focused straight ahead through all in its path, and seems tense enough to snap at the first provocation. The firefighter is certain that he will, and who will stop him then? Few can lay claim to have tamed the two, and those who have are either dead, or close to it, even as they stand here.

Another transmission. It is from the scientist who has taken the place of the miracle-worker until his return--a return that shall never happen now. There is another death to be added to the growing list. Their Commander has joined them. The firefighter suddenly falls to his knees as the severity of the proclamation strikes him to his very core, and all color drains from his face and optics. He looks up, slowly, and sees everyone looking at him in gazes of fear and apprehension. He finds that he cannot speak, cannot even find the words, and all he can do is sag his shoulders and shake his head.

The Jeep suddenly bolts out of the shuttle without a word, transforming and disappearing into the woods that were once his sanctuary. It is doubtful when, or if, he will return to them. The silver Datsun releases a wordless cry, screaming his depthless pain to the sky, and only then is his hold on his dead comrade released. The red-and-blue compatriot embraces him, murmuring words that are meant to comfort but have no meaning, and the silver one completely shuts down as he is unable to cope any further. The Twins remain at the miracle-worker's side, still as statues, and the black truck falls to one knee next to what is left of the older comrade. The smaller Autobots, their numbers depleted by both distance and death, just stand still, rooted to their places.

No-one moves for hours. Even when the sounds of battle echo from the city, when the sound of engines flare overhead, when dead silence falls over the area like the darkness that comes with the coming of the night. Only the full moon above illuminates the area, their optics dark as they struggle to not join those who have passed on. But eventually, the firefighter rises to his feet, his expression darkly grim as he turns back to the entrance and sees the long-awaited rescue team approach. The team-leader, a firefighter much like himself, arrives first with the others coming soon behind. There is not a word spoken as the rescue team's medic, the miracle-worker's apprentice, makes his rounds and silently confirms what all already know.

Another soon comes, one who has been absent from the war for much of his time ever since being reawakened from his icy prison twenty years prior. The great red-and-white starfighter says not a word, landing on the ground outside of the fallen shuttle, and lowers his ramp for the others to board. Slowly, those within move from one shuttle to the other. The red-and-blue Datsun carries his silver self, who is alive yet not awake, within the starfighter and gently lies him down on one of the benches within. The smaller ones carry their fallen one between them, all carrying the burden.

Reverently, with care that would not normally be attributed to them, the stone-faced Twins carry the miracle-worker into the shuttle. There would be no miracles worked today, of that much all are certain. The rescue team's leader assists the black one in carrying what is left of their once-red comrade, the one whose duty was to guard the Commander… except that did not happen this time. Could not happen.

The firefighter kneels and picks up the once-black-and-white Datsun, ignoring what little smoke still wafts from the mouth and wound of the fallen one as he too carries him into the waiting starship. All has been changed in this one moment, and what happens next means little to them now.

The silver one stirs, not of awakening but of unseen nightmares that none present can ever fathom. The firefighter rests the last of the bodies on the floor of the starfighter's bay, and the doors close as their new shuttle takes off into the sky. The air is heavy, their souls even heavier, and never is a word uttered. Only the whimpers from the silver one, his psyche likely shattered beyond all repair, tear into the silence and rend their sparks mercilessly.

"Please… don't leave me… not again… nooooooo… not… a… gain…"


End file.
